It is fitting that Lent overlaps this year with the Winter Olympics. The last time this happened was eight years ago, in 2002; the quadrennial recurrence of the Winter Olympics so rarely coincides with the annual recurrence of Lent that reading the former in light of the latter is not something we immediately think of. But this year they do overlap, and this provides us with a particular model for our Lenten reflections. In truth, this should not be surprising as athleticism is a key image within the apostolic portrait of the Christian life. In the New Testament, the most famous and sustained application of athletic training to the spiritual life is found in the anonymously authored Letter to the Hebrews. In its twelfth chapter, we read,
Therefore, since we are surrounded by so great a cloud of witnesses, let us also lay aside every weight and the sin that clings so closely, and let us run with perseverance the race that is set before us, looking to Jesus the pioneer and perfecter of our faith, who for the sake of the joy that was set before him endured the cross, disregarding its shame, and has taken his seat at the right hand of the throne of God.[[Heb. 12:1 – 2]]
Regrettably, but as some of us know, the above statement is perfectly amenable to Christian kitsch. Its sentiments can easily become a slogan, a bumper sticker, or a soundbyte that wholly lacks sincerity. More dangerously, these sentiments can result in a worldview that lacks commitment. But if we read the twelfth chapter of Hebrews in its entirety, we discover that it is first and foremost a robust meditation upon discipline in the here and now. The author writes,
Now discipline always seems painful rather than pleasant at the time, but later it yields the peaceful fruit of righteousness to those who have been trained by it. Therefore lift your drooping hands and strengthen your weak knees, and make straight the paths for your feet, so that what is lame may not be put out of joint, but rather be healed.[[Heb. 12:11 – 13]]
The inspired author exhorts us to prolonged, committed discipline. The athletes now competing in the Winter Olympics are like icons of discipline, and we should strive to be the same. Lent is about this striving.
My words are apt to be misunderstood. During Lent, as most of us know, it is customary to give something up. We sometimes hear it said that instead of giving something up, we might take something on – a sustained Biblical study, for example. All of this is true; Lent is indeed a time of sacrifice, however minimal (or not). But at a deeper level, Lent is about taking apart the various pieces of our respective identities and asking how important they really are. I do not mean that Lent is about taking apart the various pieces of our Christian commitments; we should mull over and strengthen these on a daily basis. When it comes to our own identities, however, Lent provides us with an opportunity to learn something about ourselves by changing what we do. As the 17th century Anglo-Irish bishop Jeremy Taylor wrote in The Rule and Exercises of Holy Living, “fasting is not to be commended as a duty, but as an instrument.”[[Jeremy Taylor, The Rule and Exercises of Holy Living, V.6, in Selected Works (Paulist Press, 1990), 460]] This is not trite. As anyone who has ever gone on a diet or added an exercise routine knows, it is difficult to reform old habits. But the journey of Lent provides a forum for knowing ourselves with respect to our own concrete experiences. Giving up food is a simple path to such discovery, but the tragic, fallen, and rebellious facets of human nature mean that all too often, sacrifice brings out not the best but the worst in us. What does this mean?
Since I first began observing Lent ten years ago (I was not raised Episcopalian), I have variously fasted from foods that I love during this season. Last year, I gave up red meat. The year before that I gave up beer. The first year that I observed Lent, I gave up cheese. I imagine that for most Americans, culinary sacrifices such as these might seem a bit extreme. On the one hand, I think that is sad; truthfully, my own ability to sacrifice these goods points to the fact that I am well off in the world. Within a global framework – and this is something that Lent should certainly bring to mind! – food items such as red meat, beer, and cheese are not staple foods but luxury items. Far from being seen as a considerable Lenten sacrifice, we should recognize that their consistent availability in my life for the rest of the year is what is most likely to be excessive. (Clearly, a serious engagement with Lent can only lead to a Christ-inspired, quasi-socialist politics of economic redistribution – but that is another essay.)
On the other hand, as I have found time and again, my own desire for these various foods has had a profound psychological effect upon me after I decided to give one of them up. When I stopped eating cheese, for example, I found myself with ice cream cravings – a food that I rarely eat. And yet, I did not realize this until one evening when it suddenly dawned upon me that I was eating an unusually large amount of ice cream, and that I had been doing this ever since I gave up cheese! More embarrassingly – but also more revealingly – when I look back upon my abandonment of red meat last year, I realize now that I complained quite a lot about it, and that my complaints were born of my own undisciplined desires. And when Sundays came around, I frequently indulged my desire for red meat in a way that, in retrospect, was gluttonous in attitude and disposition, even if not in quantity. I note this now with a bit of shame, but it is shame that can – indeed, must – be put to a constructive end. I know myself better now because I more clearly apprehend the erratic and illogical nature of my own appetites. It is one thing to give something up, and quite another thing to take joy in the matter! This year, one of my goals is not merely discipline of the body through sacrifice, but discipline of the spirit as well. The latter goal is one that I know I will fall short of, but I strive for it only because I now perceive my own shortcomings in the past.
All of this raises the questions such as, Why do I want what I want?, and What drives me? When asked with reference to something as simple as food, I recognize that this is not a question that is easily or quickly answered. (Thus, we might consider that asking about the nature of desire in a complex matter like relationships – intimate or otherwise – is going to be even more difficult to quickly ascertain.) But self-knowledge is found only in the process of asking and re-asking these kinds of questions. Self-knowledge truly is a journey, no less than a destination. When we ask these questions in a specific context, such as that which is offered by Lent, we have concrete, autobiographical experience to work with. Behind my own questions is St. Paul’s acutely insightful lament in his Letter to the Romans: “I see in my members another law at war with the law of my mind, making me captive to the law of sin that dwells in my members. Wretched man that I am! Who will save me from this body of death?”[[Rom. 7:23 – 24]] Mine is a “body of death” in a particular way, and Lent confronts me with the opportunity to wrestle with that again.
Simply stated, Lent is an opportunity for pursuing self-knowledge within the framework of crucifixion and resurrection. Speaking for myself, it is no small matter of regret that the practice of self-knowledge, in all of its revealed tragedy and in all of its aspired glory, is not something frequently enjoined upon Christians today. I think that this has something to do with the losing the ancient perspective that the riches of classical culture are an aid to Christian culture. We may turn to the ancients and glean much from them. The ancient Temple of Apollo contained the simple but potent maxim, “Know thyself.” Christians have used this exhortation variously over the ages. St. Augustine’s Confessions is, in effect, a thirteen-book exercise in self-knowledge; John Calvin began his Institutes with an exhortation to self-knowledge as aiding the knowledge of God. It is helpful to note that both Augustine and Calvin wrote their works with an eye towards conversion, for whether we realize it or not, in the context of the ancient world, the Apollonian dictum was an exhortation to conversion – that is, an exhortation to living a new way of life.
Self-knowledge and discipline are practices that follow naturally from genuine conversion. The Biblical basis of this, which is reflected in a text such as the Letter to the Hebrews (cited above), is well illuminated if we turn to the outlook offered by ancient philosophy. Pierre Hadot, a renowned French historian of antiquity, writes that in the ancient world philosophy was perceived not as a theoretical exercise, but as “a conversion of one’s entire being, and ultimately a certain desire to live in a certain way.”[[Pierre Hadot, What is Ancient Philosophy? (The Belknap Press of Harvard University Press, 2002), 3]] Converting to philosophy might seem strange, but in the ancient world, one did not convert to a form of religious veneration, or cultus – i.e., prayers and sacrifices. Rather, conversion meant adopting a philosophical way of life that depended upon the pursuit of both self-knowledge and self-discipline. It entailed wearing the “philosopher’s garb,” a simple tunic, and living in community with other philosophers who adopted the same way of life. Hadot notes that among both ancient philosophers and ancient Christians, literary presentations of conversion were often made with the simple statement that a given person simply made the choice to pursue self-knowledge. He cites as representative St. Basil the Great’s “Homily on the Words, ‘Be Attentive to Yourself’,” in which the great Cappadocian father exhorts both knowledge of creation and knowledge of oneself as aids in the knowledge of God.[[Hadot, What is Ancient Philosophy?, 242 – 3; Basil’s homily is available in a fine English translation by Sr. Nonna Verna Harrison in St. Basil the Great: On the Human Condition (St. Vladimir’s Seminary Press, 2005), 93 – 105. Basil’s homily is based upon the Greek translation of Deut. 15:9.]] Within such a framework, it is no surprise that many early Christians described the Gospel as “true philosophy.”[[ e.g., Eusebius, History of the Church, 4.8]]
And yet, for both ancient philosophers and ancient Christians, philosophy touched upon something even deeper. In Socrates’ famous words, “The one aim of those who practice philosophy in the proper manner is to practice for dying and death.”[[Plato, Phaedo, 64a]] In Lent, we are reminded of the same. On Ash Wednesday, we are signed with the cross and told, “Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return.” Nothing could more properly speak of the integration of conversion, discipline, and self-knowledge than this simple statement. As a liturgical expression of true philosophy, Lent provides us with an opportunity to practice for dying and death. Borrowing again from Jeremy Taylor, “he who prepares not for death before his last sickness, is like him that begins to study philosophy only when he is going to dispute publicly.”[[Jeremy Taylor, The Rule and Exercises of Holy Dying, Dedication, in Selected Works (Paulist Press, 1990), 466]] Holiness is not and cannot be an afterthought; it begins with conversion in the here and now; it is pursued in light of the end that we will all meet, and the judgment that awaits each of us.
Know thyself as mortal; know thyself as sinful (not merely rebellious, but wayward and tragic, too). Know thyself called with Christ’s own words, “Follow thou me.” As we ponder these things, we may profitably admire the athletes around us, recognizing that their own discipline, made manifest in their bodily form and athletic skill, reflects nothing short of a truly eloquent rigor. How beautiful are the athletic feats of the body at the height of its training! Our own bodies should manifest a similar control over our own appetites, and in doing so they should reflect the discipline of our spirits. Conversion and discipline, the knowledge of God and of ourselves – these are the fruits of a Lenten discipline that is made holy, set apart and consecrated before God. These, too, are the preludes of a glory that is yet to come, if we will only “lift our drooping hands and strengthen our weak knees, and make straight the paths for our feet, so that what is lame may not be put out of joint, but rather be healed.”
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